Classic Poem

Was it not worth the farewell to the sun,
O caravan of rays through desert space,
To bear the image of this lovely face?
Now hurry with the beauty you have won.
Where shall it not be known when you have run
The shining leagues to your appointed place,
And far and starry hamlets know that grace,
So from the light new beauty may be spun?
Marvel of animate ivory and fire!
Proud head upcast with heaven-assailing gaze
As if for flight! Nay, nay, you need not wings
To reach the sky; for, elder to desire,
Your image scatters on a million rays
And, quivering with that beauty, aether sings.